Death's Last Kiss
by sweet-and-simple
Summary: A life for a life.  The purer the life, the greater the sacrifice.  The greater the sacrifice, the less that was asked to be sacrificed.  The less that was asked for, the more difficult it was to give.  AU RL


Obsidian eyes were watching him from the doorway, a pitch-black gaze that even overran the man's scleras, the darkness stretching into his thick, spiky tresses. The _nothingness_ that was suggested by the black like a raven's wing drew down his body in the form of a silk Armani suit, ending at his expansive Italian loafers.

Only his skin, really, was not black. Bone white, though. So, really, was it any better?

Trembling, he stripped himself of his clothes, aware of depthless eyes tracking his every motion, categorizing every thought portrayed by his shivering flesh. Not technically a mind-reader, but he read bodies as if everything that went through the mind was uttered from the mouth.

Without words, Lambo knew that his visitor could _hear_ his fear through his gushing heart, _feel_ his fear through his skin raised with goosebumps, perhaps even _smell_ the sour tang of cold sweat.

Stripped of his clothing as well as his dignity, he stood there for his visitor to analyze.

His sable black hair fell messily around his young and beautiful (too youthful to be handsome, too striking to be cute, too awing to be pretty, plain, or even forgetful) face; his thick, black eyelashes that framed his electric (maybe emerald? Perhaps grassy, sea foam, maybe changing or maybe all of them?) green eyes that so contrasted with his pale caramel flesh. His coral pink lips were full and pouty, a delectable treat more than one being had before wished to kiss; alas, wishes were wished because nothing that had to be wished could ever be reality.

His figure was lean and yet elegant, his straight shoulders leading to thin (but not unhealthily so) arms that ended each with perfect hands, every fingernail a close crescent. His collarbone curved _just right_ above his chest, two dusky nipples perked upon each breast. His upper torso melded beautifully into a tapered waist, jutting hipbones giving way to full thighs that led to muscular calves. His feet were no less worthy of attention, each toe straight and all nails smooth and clipped.

The longer he stood there, his hands crossed over his lean belly, crescent nails burrowing into opposing elbows, the greater his urge to cry. The greater his urge to throw himself back into his clothes.

The greater his urge to forget his love.

An hour past in silent study, Lambo shivering as the warm air kissed his frozen flesh. Shivering as his heart thumped uncertainly in his chest and as a single tear wound down his pale expression.

At the end of that hour, his visitor finally – _finally_ – stepped away from the door. His gait was confident and yet quiet, a soft whisper of _nothingness_ across the floor.

Standing in front of Lambo, he said nothing. His black eyes (so black, so _very_ black so that there was no white – why was there no white?) pierced his very soul, claimed it, and then bloodily murdered it.

Without touching Lambo, he gestured towards the bed behind him. The large, scarlet red bed that was not even his… Scarlet like blood, not like love. With a canopy of black silk.

Like a rain of endless foreboding.

Shaking, he crawled into the center, biting his quivering bottom lip as he looked back for direction.

A bottle of lotion was tossed at him. It dropped from his clumsy, uncoordinated hands onto his lap. He stared at it until he could read the label through his blurred vision.

Lube. Not something provided at the last second, but honest to god lube. Anal lube.

It really couldn't get anymore specific than that.

He let his eyes fall ashamedly shut. The cap clicked as it came undone. He upturned the bottle into his hand and succeeded in shooting out a third of the contents onto his thigh instead of his palm. The second time, his aim was true.

Spreading his knees apart, he reached over his back, seeking the crevice between the joining of his legs. He found the small, puckered hole with a broken sob.

The quiet screech of a chair being dragged across the floor made him look to the side. His visitor had seated himself at the side of the bed, ankle resting on opposing knee with hands folded _gentlemanly _in his lap. The moment black orbs and green eyes met, his visitor gestured for him to spin around.

For his back to face him while he finger fucked himself.

He turned the viewing of his ministrations towards his visitor even as he buried his face into the blankets. Shoulders shaking from his muffled cries, he violated his own body with first one finger and then two. A third one was bound to join after he felt the pain dull from the first enterers.

Taking a brokenhearted peek between his legs, he saw an erection – his _own_ erection – as it strained towards his belly. Hormones. Youth. Adrenaline. All the reasons why it rose. It begged for attention even while he begged to have it _all_ ended.

Staring at the need pulsing between his thighs vaguely drew his attention to the tightening of his abdominals, the sweat breaking across his body that had something less to do with terror than before.

And then he looked past his own want.

His visitor had undone his pants, revealing a heavy length already half-hard sprouting from between his crossed legs. His bone-white pianist fingers slid and danced along it, playing it like a well-tuned instrument.

His mind was torn between that of a horny teenager and of an unwilling male. That part of him that was young and thoughtless was aroused by the cock that would soon be housed in his body. That part of him that was ancient from birth demanded that he deflate.

No matter which part of him his nether regions were supposed to listen to, his erection cried pre-cum.

A fourth finger slipped awkwardly into his orifice, resulting in him tearing his bottom lip open. A drop fell to the bed and he wasn't surprised that he couldn't tell it apart from the covers.

His visitor slid on a condom, rolling it all the way down to the base. Only then, fully dressed for the deed, did he stand like the regal figure he was (without even the slightest twtich) and placed one knee on the bed. He beckoned Lambo over with curling of his pointer finger.

He stopped in his dirty act to crawl to the man, eyes, cheeks, and nose painted red from his tears. He wasn't snotty, wasn't loudly clearing his nasal cavities, and so the red born from his pain only made him more beautiful instead of pitiful.

Unsurely, he put his mouth to the foreign length, tasting the pasty rubber on his tongue. He kept his body firmly away from the visitor's, only his mouth touching the glove.

Without experience and mindless with turmoil as it was, his work was poor at best, reversing at worst. His teeth would scrape awkwardly before he would jerk back, terrified that he had broken the condom. Flinchingly, he would return and barely touch the tip with his tongue before bruising it with his pursed lips.

His visitor finally – _finally, finally, _**finally** – had him stop his lackluster seduction and turn around with a twirl of his finger yet again.

He offered the man his back, his virgin hole held high in reluctant offering. He curled his fists into the bed, biting down on the sheets.

The head of his visitor's penis poked his entrance before forcing entry, drawing a low cry of pain from him as the strangest sensation of being stretched _inwards_ occurred.

His visitor pushed in only the first few inches past the head, close enough that Lambo could feel the pain and yet far enough that the only parts of their bodies that touched were their intimates. Not a hand strained to grab each other.

Not a name was murmured.

Shallow thrusts commenced, so damnably uncomfortable and unusual with the distance between them that his erection suffered and then began to wilt.

He began to lose his mind all over again. The devil on his right shoulder told him to _do it_. The angel on his left shoulder was dead.

Death must have killed his angel so that his true reasoning would be gone.

The devil on his right shoulder repeated, like a mantra, _do it do it do it do it~ _

On a crueler note, he whispered – _you'll never get to do it again._

Tears clinging desperately to his eyelashes, he submitted.

He pushed his hips back, back further than what the shallow thrusts had given him, and the curves of his butt met the firm, heatless body behind him.

His breath caught. He pulled his hips back from the contact. He could breathe again.

Not enough, he realized, as his visitor took his initiative to strive forward.

The cycle continued, his bare ass meeting the sliver of flesh revealed between the fallen waistband of the man's pants and the risen-up edges of his Armani coat. His breathing would stop, accelerate, stop, accelerate, stop, accelerate…

He became dizzy with it. So much so that he couldn't quite achieve balance.

He needed someone to keep his balance for him.

Blindly, he reached back – fingers twitching, arm shaking, wrist jerking – and grabbed an awaiting hand, a hand limp at the visitor's side. Skin touched skin. His breathe caught.

He placed the hand on his hip. Now completely without oxygen, his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

Something interfered, however… something soft and yet scarlet. _The bed sheets_.

His visitor held forcefully onto his hips with the scarlet fabric separating their flesh. His hips pulled back till only the tip of his gloved cock rested within Lambo and then he pushed back in with calculated speed, hard and fast and aiming straight forthat_ spot_. The spot that made him see white instead of red and black, the spot that made him soundlessly moan instead of unsurely whimper.

He hadn't the air for the latter anyway.

His innards became thoroughly abused. His visitor took no mercy on his body, his thrusts more savage by the minute until even the bed cried out for the end. And yet he never stopped.

His flesh was icy cold to the touch, Lambo was almost certain of it. He was almost certain that the condom had broken.

His heart was stuttering in his chest, trying to stay in pace with his arousal even as it tried to give him life.

And then his visitor struck _that _part again.

With a wordless cry, he came. His semen sluggishly erupted across the sheets as his eyes shut peacefully.

His breathing stopped. In just a few more moments, the moment his visitor stopped his violent form of 'lovemaking' and the feeling of ice water swept up his colon, his heart gave its last, struggled beat, and then fell still.

As beautiful in death as in life, he was turned gently over by hands no longer separated by bed sheets.

His widened, swollen entrance oozed no liquid. No seed fell from his body, just complete _nothingness_. And yet the man's cock had wilted in assuaged pleasure, just the smallest drop of _black_ clinging to the gland.

He placed his pride back in his pants and fixed his appearance, soon looking as if he had not fucked someone into their death.

That completed, he stroked the boy's body, its smooth curves and angular bones. His soft hair and wet eyelashes.

His skin was flushed blue, lips prettily like forget-me-nots, the bottom being a slashed petal. He stroked those too – his lips.

Sensational, the need to sacrifice. He marveled at the human emotion, the emotion that was _love_ strong enough to even warrant _Death_.

A life for a life. The purer the life, the greater the sacrifice. The greater the sacrifice, the less that was asked for to be sacrificed. And yet, for an example of twisted irony, the less that was sacrificed was usually everything that was wished not to be sacrificed. Alas, wishes were wished because nothing that needed to be wished could ever become reality.

His body, his life, for the dying soul of his big brother.

The visitor pondered for a moment in angered silence (he did not like not having the answers) why humans were such foolish creatures.

The moment gone, he gained his footing. After another moment of thought, he leaned over and he kissed those pretty, broken forget-me-not petals.

He allowed himself a smirk as another spear of irony presented itself. The Kiss of Death… cast long after he had born the last product of life: the End.

Neatly, he laid the child down properly on his bed, enjoying for the last time the sight of the rare beauty cast upon his sheets. With shallow wonderment, he debated whether or not to keep him there. To keep him young and gorgeous and his alone.

This time he chuckled. For, never before had he supposed…

Death to be a possessive lover.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: The frightening truth? This was inspired by watching 'Frankenhole'.<p> 


End file.
